The Map of Love (75 page)

‘So,’ Shukri Bey says, ‘we shall sit back and allow them to carve us up?’

There is a silence.

‘What about the killings?’ Shukri Bey says again. ‘The thousands killed in Morocco and Libya? The people turned off their lands in Palestine? The French atrocities in Algeria?’

‘These have become commonplace,’ Sharif Basha says, ‘and will become more so if there is a war between the Europeans.’

‘An Alliance between them would be even worse for us,’ Ya
qub Basha says.

A war is bad and an alliance is worse. And one of them has to happen. This is a race to subjugate the world — each nation using the tools it masters best: France, brute strength; Italy, terror; Britain, perfidy, false promises and double dealing; the Zionists, business schemes, blackmail and stealth. And Egypt? What is Egypt’s strength? Her resilience? Her ability to absorb people and events into the pores of her being? Is that true or is it just a consolation? A shifting of responsibility? And if it is true, how much can she absorb and still remain Egypt? Sharif Basha looks up at Nur’s trees, taller than him now, and sturdy
after five short years. His daughter and the light of his eyes. When she hugs him she pats his back as though he were in need of comfort. How he wishes he could protect her! Turn her loose into life as he releases her into this garden: free but lovingly watched over. And what of Ahmad? And Mahrous? Already they are climbing out on the roof of their school to shout ‘el-Dustur ya Efendeena’ at the windows of
Abdin Palace. Will they too spend their lives in battle, caught up in events not of their making? Using all their energy, all their intelligence, to ensure that things do
not
happen? ‘But, my love,’ he hears Anna say, ‘you misrepresent yourself again. Look at all that has been achieved: the university is there. Education for women is moving fast. The School of Fine Art already has one brilliant graduate: Rodin himself has agreed to take young Mukhtar into his studio. Look at the articles you have written, the people you have defended. Look at your people in Tawasi —’

Sharif Basha glances up at the haramlek. Behind Anna’s lattice her light is on. She is writing her letters, her journal, waiting for him. He crosses the courtyard towards his father’s shrine. He would like to spend more time with Anna in Tawasi. The weeks they have spent there and in Abu Qir have been among their happiest. In Tawasi you keep hold of the things that matter: the land and the people. And he is lucky to have land. Land that he can leave to Nur and to her children, to keep them rooted and in touch with the things that matter. Land that they can go to when the world gets too much.

Mirghani is asleep behind the door but his father is not in his bed. Sharif Basha finds him seated by the tomb, leaning his head against the cold marble.

‘Kheir, my father?’

There is no reply.

‘Could you not sleep?’ The old man does not answer and his son asks again: ‘Could you not sleep?’

‘The time for sleep will come,’ Baroudi Bey says softly.

Sharif Basha lowers himself to the floor by his father and takes his hand. ‘Are you worried about something?’ he asks.

‘God is forgiving and merciful,’ the old man whispers.

Sharif Basha sits in silence, his father’s frail hand clasped
gently in both his own. When his father whispers again, he leans close to catch his words.

‘He was no traitor,’ the old man says, and his son knows he speaks of
Urabi.

‘No,’ he says. ‘God have mercy on him.’

‘They betrayed him,’ the old man says. ‘De Lesseps betrayed him.’

‘God have mercy on him too,’ Sharif Basha says, ‘all this was a long time ago.’

‘God forgets nobody,’ Baroudi Bey says. ‘His mercy is vast. And He forgets nobody.’

‘Recite “Say He is God, the Only One,” and ease your mind,’ Sharif Basha says. ‘Come, lean on me and I will walk you to bed.’

The old man leans his head against the tomb and closes his eyes.

A rustle at the door and Zeinab Hanim hurries in. She is in her dressing gown and carries a spirit lamp in her hand.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she cries, and Mirghani springs to his feet. ‘Why are you both sitting here by the tomb like this?’

‘My father could not sleep,’ Sharif Basha says. His father’s hand holds tightly to his.

‘Get up, ya Baroudi Bey,’ she says. ‘You will surely get piles sitting on the cold floor like this. You too, ya habibi, get up. Get up.’

Sharif Basha helps his father to his feet, and with his mother lighting the way, he walks him back to his cell, past Mirghani sitting dazed on his pallet, and sits him down on the bed.

‘I’ll get Mabrouka to make you some aniseed tea, to help you sleep,’ Zeinab Hanim says.

‘No,’ her husband says, his voice plaintive, ‘I don’t want aniseed. I want something cold.’

‘We shall get you some tamarind. ‘ His wife turns to Mirghani.

‘Water will do,’ the old man says, and Sharif Basha pours him a glass from the jug on the chest of drawers. When he has drunk it he looks up at his wife. ‘Stay with me, ya Zeinab, don’t leave me.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Stay with him where?’ Sharif Basha looks at the narrow bed.

‘Leave him to me,’ his mother says. ‘You go to your wife now. It is late.’

When he goes in to Anna, he says, ‘I looked at your loom. It is empty?’

‘I have finished the tapestry. It took long enough.’

‘Where is it, Anna? Can I see it?’

‘Mabrouka and Hasna are stretching it and sewing on the backing. When I have stitched it together I shall exhibit it for you.’

‘So what shall you do now?’

‘You know what I would really like to do?’ Anna puts her arms around her husband’s neck. ‘What, my love?’

‘I should like to paint you. But you never sit still long enough.’

‘Khalas ya Setti. I shall sit.’

‘Truly?’ Anna looks up at him in surprise. She had not thought it would be so easy.

‘Yes. I shall sit in Nur’s garden and watch her play and you can paint to your heart’s content.’

‘If you suck your thumb you’ll have protruding teeth and no one will marry you,’ Hasna says.

‘Ahmad will marry me whatever I do.’ Nur takes her thumb out of her mouth for long enough to say the words and puts it back in.

‘A girl with a hard head,’ Hasna says.

‘Let her be,’ Mabrouka says tenderly. She holds out her arms and Nur comes into them, snuggling, thumb in mouth, against the warm breast, taking in the same scent of orange blossom her father had breathed in half a century before. Mabrouka’s hand cradles the child’s head, strokes her hair. ‘The name of the Prophet guard and protect you,’ she whispers. ‘May He write down happiness for you wherever you go.’

Tawasi, 15 July 1998

The headlines on my computer read: Security Council demands Israel cancel Project Greater Jerusalem — European Parliament rejects report on Islamic Fundamentalism threat —
Beirut demonstrations demand release of Arab prisoners from Israeli jails — Algerian journalists in protest demonstrations -Israeli reservists refuse to confront Palestinian civilians — Famine in Sudan — Bomb alert in American embassy ‒ 3 killed in fundamentalist confrontation in Upper Egypt.

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